


Information

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Assistance [5]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:03:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1434433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s been almost three weeks, now, and Knuckle’s just starting to think that they should tell Morel, and soon, or it’ll be too awkward to explain how long it’s been going on." Morel fulfills his responsibility as a teacher, Knuckle attempts to die of embarrassment, and Shoot benefits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Knowing

Knuckle has been being very careful. He doesn’t look at Shoot any more than he used to, for one thing. He’s totally avoiding even brushing the other man’s hand with his own, much less curling their fingers together behind Morel’s back. They’ve only kissed outside of their room twice, both times when Morel was miles away and could never have known, and it’s not that Knuckle is deliberately trying to mislead their teacher, and it’s not that he thinks the older man would  _care_ , exactly. It’s partially that it’s  _theirs_ , this almost-secret just between himself and Shoot, and it’s partially that he has no idea how to bring it up, and it’s partially that when they  _do_  get their door shut there’s this brief hesitation, a flash of tight-strung anticipation before they both come at each other, and they don’t even always make it to the bed before Shoot’s jerking Knuckle off one-handed or Knuckle’s on his knees with Shoot trembling against the wall while Knuckle sucks him off, and that’s really  _fun_  and he’s not quite ready to give it up.

It’s been almost three weeks, now, and Knuckle’s just starting to think that they  _should_  tell Morel, and soon, or it’ll be too awkward to explain how long it’s been going on. He’s thinking about it over dinner, while Shoot is hunched over his notes more than his food and Morel is keeping up pleasant small talk with Knuckle while the younger man not-so-discreetly slips bites off his plate to the pair of dogs alongside his chair. Morel lets both of them indulge in their habits, doesn’t comment even when Shoot gets up without ever looking up from his reading and wanders off into the bedroom. Knuckle carefully doesn’t watch him go, although he knows for a fact that the other Hunter hasn’t spoken a word all evening. He’ll distract him thoroughly enough later; better that he be productive while he still can.

Morel leans back in his chair, takes a scrap of meat off his plate and drops his hand down low enough that one of the dogs leverages himself off the floor and comes over to accept it from his fingers. He’s watching the dog, and Knuckle’s watching him, so the younger man knows Morel’s not even looking at him when he says, “So are you and Shoot fucking?”

The world slows in its turning, coasts to a halt in time with Knuckle’s breathing. He stares at Morel, blinks once, blinks again. When he draws his hand up from his side to lie flat on the table he can feel every individual movement of muscle in the limb.

After thinking through swallowing, and licking his lips, and rearranging his tongue, and taking a breath, Knuckle manages to say, “What?” in a high breathy tone that answers the basic assumption of Morel’s question if not the specifics.

Morel grins and brings his hand back up to the table. “Shoot. Tall kid, lots of hair, one arm? He was just here, I could go ask him instead.”

“No.” Knuckle shakes his head involuntarily. “No, you’d kill him.”

“First person ever to die of embarrassment?” Morel is still grinning. His teeth are very white in comparison to his perpetual sunglasses. Knuckle has never noticed before. “He’d probably manage. And do it without answering the question, too. Which is why I’m asking you instead.”

“No.” Knuckle’s voice comes at a great distance, echoing and cool like a played-back recording. “No, we’re not.”

“Only technically, then.” Morel rubs a hand over his chin like he’s thinking over a problem. “That  _is_  why I’m asking you, you know. If you aren’t yet it’s because you don’t have the tools, or the information, and as your teacher I really should provide.”

“Yet?” Knuckle echoes back in that same surreal tone.

“Of course.” Morel tips his head. “You’ve been together since we went up against the Chimera Ants, right?”

Knuckle blinks. “No.”

Morel’s eyebrows go up. “No?” He echoes back, low and drawn-out with disbelief.

“We hadn’t. I mean.” Knuckle’s whole face is numb and his heart is starting to beat again, erratically fast with adrenaline. “Shoot kissed me, after, when he was in the hospital. But that was the first time.”

“Oh.” Morel’s grin vanishes into a frown of consideration. “He’s a little slower than I thought.” He jabs a finger at Knuckle so hard the other man leans back and away. “Or you’re less aggressive. Doesn’t matter, you worked it out.” It’s not a question but a declaration, certainty too strong for Knuckle to argue with even if Morel  _wasn’t_  entirely correct.

“How did you know?” Knuckle asks, shock beginning to give way to pleading confusion.

“Recently? Or all along?” Morel shrugs. “Recently you stopped touching each other entirely. Shoot still looks at you, sometimes, but you barely glance at him, and used to be you’d get up in his face every time you had sometime to say, or you’d have a hand on his shoulder just because. Now you’d think you two barely knew each other, so something changed.” He grins. “And for before, well, same thing in reverse. You spent a lot of time trying to get a rise out of him and he spent a whole lot longer watching you and not complaining when you gave him hell. I thought you’d work it out sooner -- years ago actually -- but no such luck.” He sighs. “Lost a bet with Knov on that. You two had better be making up for it now.”

Knuckle exhales. It gets strained into a whine in his throat and Morel laughs; Knuckle rocks forward to put his face in his hands. “I think this is the single worst conversation I’ve ever had.”

“You’re taking one for the team so Shoot doesn’t have to,” Morel points out.

Knuckle chuckles, and if it sounds like a panicked wail at least it’s a little bit amused. “I am telling myself that and it makes it almost worth it.”

“Look.” Morel’s arms come down over the table and he leans in towards the younger man. “I’m not just trying to embarrass you.”

“You’re doing a great job of it,” Knuckle mumbles into his hands.

“And it is a  _highly_  entertaining side-effect.” Knuckle can hear Morel’s grin without even looking at him. “But you’re gonna have to take a deep breath and buckle down to this conversation. We’ll never talk about it again but I gotta fulfill my duties as your teacher. Look on the bright side, at least one of you isn’t pining for  _me_.”

It takes Knuckle a minute to catch up to that. “Oh my god. Did Knov --”

“With Palm, yeah. Real relieved you two decided on each other and not on me, I gotta admit.” A hand comes down on Knuckle’s shoulder. “One other thing before we get into the specifics.”

“What?” It comes out gruff with strain but Knuckle can’t manage to even attempt to smooth his tone.

“Don’t worry about my reaction so much.”

Knuckle lifts his head from his hands to look at Morel as his teacher continues. “I’m  _happy_  for you two. I mean I’d prefer if you kept things PG while I’m in eyeshot, but you can  _touch_  each other. The unfulfilled tension between you right now is driving me insane.”

Knuckle laughs weakly. “Understood.”

“Good.” Morel drops his hand back to the table and leans back in his chair. “You’d better take a deep breath, I’ll get through this as fast as I can for you.” Knuckle flinches, but he does as Morel suggests.

It doesn’t take all that long; he escapes in just a few minutes, although it feels like a week’s passed and he’s not sure he’s  _ever_  going to stop blushing. He  _does_  have some valuable information, though. When he comes into the bedroom Shoot looks up and immediately and literally drops what he’s doing to get to his feet and step forward.

“What happened?” he gasps, reaching out to wrap steadying fingers around the back of Knuckle’s neck.

“Don’t ask.” Knuckle shakes his head. “You really do not want to know.”

“O...okay?”

Knuckle takes a breath and shuffles in closer to press his forehead in against Shoot’s sharp collarbones. “Morel knows.” Shoot’s fingers go tense before he continues, “And he doesn’t care. He’s known for a while. He’s happy for us, he says.”

“Oh.” Shoot’s hand relaxes. His fingers start to stroke against the top line of Knuckle’s collar. “That’s good?”

“Yeah. That’s not what…” Knuckle laughs, the absurdity starting to sink in as his embarrassment is pushed back to more manageable levels. “Don’t worry about it. Everything’s fine.”

“Okay.” Shoot relaxes, very slightly, like a knot between his shoulders is unwinding. Knuckle wraps his arms around the other man and breathes in against Shoot’s shoulder, and when he starts to laugh the hysterical edge softens into actual amusement within the span of a breath.


	2. Doing

Shoot’s half-undressed by the time Knuckle comes back in from the other room; he’s divested himself of his outer layer of clothing and has started the lengthy process of letting his hair down. He thinks at first that Knuckle will be in shortly, but as he get through the fourth row it’s clear the other man will be longer than Shoot anticipated. With his  _Nen_  hands it goes much faster, so when the door comes open most of Shoot’s scalp is tingling in the almost-pleasant rush of blood back upon the release of tension.

Shoot looks up at Knuckle’s shoulders as the other man closes the door behind himself. He had begun to worry, when the low murmur of voices from down the hall kept up for more than the minute or two he initially expected. Surely if Morel had found out about their relationship, namely the part where the second bed in their room is more for storage than actual use, one or the other would have come to collect Shoot himself. At least that’s what he’s been telling himself in sterner and sterner mental tones for the past five minutes, especially when Knuckle’s voice faded out entirely and he could only distinguish Morel’s lower rumble. But Knuckle’s back, and there’s no shouting Morel at his heels, so everything is --

Knuckle turns around, and his expression is blank with such total horror that Shoot loses his focus on his  _Nen_ , startles to his feet as he reaches out towards Knuckle with both his real hand and all three of his called ones before they dissipate under his lack of attention.

“What  _happened_?” he manages as he steps forward. It seems straightforward enough in that first instinctive motion, but his self-consciousness catches him up just before he actually makes contact with Knuckle’s shoulder, his hand catching and hovering an awkward inch over the other’s white jacket.

Knuckle doesn’t seem to notice the hesitation. His own hand comes up with none of Shoot’s delayed panic, his fingers curl around the other’s wrist with the same ease with which he used to invade Shoot’s personal space before the two of them became...whatever they are, exactly. Shoot resists automatically, nearly pulls his hand back before he can force himself to relax, but Knuckle either doesn’t notice or ignores the instinctive resistance, and when he slides his thumb against the inside of Shoot’s wrist the taller man goes stiff with an entirely different kind of tension. Knuckle’s hold drags his fingers down to land against the stretch of bare skin at the collar of his shirt, and very suddenly Shoot is stepping in, right up close to Knuckle’s body without even thinking so he’s close enough to kiss the other’s cheek, if he wanted to.

“Don’t ask,” Knuckle manages, sounding weird and strained and faintly echoey from this close. His head shifts and Shoot thinks for a wild moment he’s about to kiss him before the motion resolves into a head shake. “You really do not want to know.”

Shoot’s heart is racing in his chest, frantic from proximity to Knuckle and nearly a day of carefully avoiding contact, but his stomach is dipping and swooping and his thoughts are racing over possibilities too fast for him to process. “Okay,” he says, or tries to say, but his throat twists and chokes on the sound, and the tone swings up sharp at the end until it sounds like a question.

Knuckle moves, or leans, or maybe just teleports and suddenly he’s right up against Shoot’s chest, his forehead bumping against the other man’s shoulder and his breath blowing warm against Shoot’s skin, and the taller man almost misses the next words. “Morel knows.”

It takes a flashing moment of utter confusion before Shoot can even parse the meaning, beyond even the basic understanding of English and recollection of their teacher’s name. There’s another flurry,  _knows what?_  and then the awareness, belated recollection that not everyone can see the want all over his face every time he looks at Knuckle, that not everyone would assume Knuckle would come to him for comfort after an apparently agonizing conversation with their teacher. His body goes stiff, this time with a flare of panic because  _Knuckle is miserable, if Morel knows he must…_

Knuckle is talking, too fast for total coherency, words spilling out quick into the air like he’s murmuring comfort rather than meaningful information. “And he doesn’t care, he’s known for a while.” Knuckle takes a stuttering breath, Shoot can feel him fighting his words back into control before he speaks again. “He’s happy for us, he says.”

Shoot blinks out over the top of Knuckle’s head. “Oh.” He consciously takes a breath, consciously lets his arm go loose from his shoulder, consciously slides his fingers just against the top of Knuckle’s collar. Knuckle sighs like he’s breathing out his tension and Shoot can feel the twist of discomfort in his neck start to slide free. From Knuckle’s reaction everything is fine, and from his words everything is fine, but Shoot is still pretty sure he’s missed something major, and when he tries to offer comfort it comes out as a question again. “That’s good?”

“Yeah. That’s not what…” Knuckle makes a face, an involuntary grimace of discomfort. Shoot thinks he’s going to cringe, that the knot against his back is going to come back, but then he starts to laugh, so abruptly that Shoot jumps before he realizes it  _is_  a laugh and not a sob or a shout. “Don’t worry about it.” His voice drops into what Shoot thinks of as his Soothing Range, low and soft and as comforting as a touch. Even recognizing it as a deliberate act to calm him doesn’t sap the words of their impact, and Shoot takes a steadying breath even before Knuckle goes on with, “Everything’s fine,” sounding like he believes it this time.

Shoot sighs. “Okay.” He doesn’t jump, even when Knuckle’s arms come up around him; he’s become better, when he’s paying attention, at recognizing when Knuckle’s going to initiate physical contact, at tolerating it rather than shying back in immediate shock before he can even let the comfort hit his blood. Knuckle chuckles against his shoulder, his breath blowing hot and pooling in the dip of Shoot’s shoulder, and Shoot takes a breath that draws heavy in his stomach and shuts his eyes against the flush of sunburn-heat that ghosts over his skin. It doesn’t help. The removal of vision just sends his nerves flickering panic-jittery with hyperactivity, until he can feel every exhale of Knuckle’s slowing laughter against his shoulder and every individual finger of the other’s hands against his back.

He can also feel the exact moment Knuckle properly takes in their positioning. He tends to give Knuckle a hard time for being reckless, for leaping before he looks, but for all his appearance the other is actually quite good at reading situations, as evidenced by how long it it between the first flicker of tension into his arms and when he actually speaks, voice carefully level with focus that Shoot can feel through his chest.

“You were getting ready for bed.”

“Yeah.” Shoot’s hand is still against the back of Knuckle’s neck. He turns his head, very slightly, so his chin bumps against Knuckle’s cheek so lightly it almost feels accidental.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Knuckle says slowly, but he’s not moving away, and his hands are skimming down Shoot’s back.

“You’re not.” Shoot wishes his voice didn’t shake so much or sound so breathy, but he can’t do anything about either so he just settles for talking in a whisper so the tremble isn’t so audible.

Knuckle doesn’t call him out on it, though his hands come down lower and he leans in a little closer. “Are you tired?” Shoot can hear him swallow, hear the motion stick in his throat. “You should get some rest if you are.”

It’s Shoot’s turn to swallow. He turns his head farther, past the point of accidental contact and into deliberate, curls his pinky finger under the collar of Knuckle’s coat and says, “I’m not that tired,” sounding oddly calm, like he’s not casually propositioning Knuckle.

Knuckle gusts an exhale of understanding, sounding so shocked Shoot starts to flush in response, but then his chin lifts and his mouth presses against Shoot’s shoulder with total deliberation, and Shoot sighs much more quietly but no less intently, shuts his eyes as his whole body sort of drifts sideways, realigning itself around the warmth of Knuckle’s mouth on his skin. Knuckle’s fingers come down to the top edge of Shoot’s remaining clothes, not pulling, just touching, but there’s an unstated  _yet_  at the end of that that makes the fingers of Shoot’s hand start to tremble against Knuckle’s neck.

“Shoot,” Knuckle says into his shoulder. His hands sync up to push gently sideways, coaxing more than forcing. “Can we…”

He trails off. Shoot turns his head to look at where Knuckle’s hands are suggesting he go, flushes when he sees the bed up against the wall. He nods anyway, realizes Knuckle can’t see the movement, and takes a step sideways, awkward and stuttering before Knuckle catches up and moves with him. There’s a moment as they reach the bed in tandem, both of them hesitating for the other, but Shoot’s getting better at this taking-action thing, and he only waits long enough to take a deep breath before he drops heavily to the mattress, grabs at the front of Knuckle’s jacket and pulls the other man down with him. Knuckle follows, eyes wide and surprised like he invariably is; when Shoot starts unbuttoning the front of his white coat, he takes a breath and almost pulls away. Shoot’s ready for that too, catches the fabric in a fist to hold Knuckle in place, pull him in close, and he can’t meet the other man’s gaze and he’s blushing hot all over his face, but when his mouth meets Knuckle’s they’re both smiling, awkward and shy but happy for all that,  _euphoric_  in a way Shoot can never remember being before in all his life.

It’s a little easier, after that. Shoot gets Knuckle’s coat open, then loses his balance and falls sideways while trying to push the clothing off. Knuckle laughs -- he’s just as flushed as Shoot is, now -- drops the jacket, comes in to lean in over the other man with the advantage of two arms to brace himself, and drops kisses all across Shoot’s mouth and cheeks and chest until the taller man is too flushed and breathless to even think of protesting when Knuckle starts working on what little clothing he’s still got on. His cheeks darken with self-consciousness as the last of it comes free, as they always do; he thinks he might always blush, even years in the future, when Knuckle gets the last of his clothing free and there’s just air against his skin. But then he’s thinking about  _years in the future_ , and Knuckle’s half-purring back in his throat and coming down so his body runs up warm against Shoot’s, and the taller man can’t think to breathe or move or do  _anything_  other than exhale shocked and pleased and tip his head up to brush a kiss against Knuckle’s hairline.

Shoot’s awareness of time sort of stretches and twists after that; he’s breathing too fast and then too slow, Knuckle’s coat stays on but his pants vanish at some point without Shoot paying attention, and Shoot’s got himself up on his elbow so he can get his knee between Knuckle’s legs, lean down in spite of his precarious balance to catch Knuckle’s shoulder under his mouth, lick at the faint trace of salt under his lips and breathe in the other man’s warm directly into his lungs.

“Shoot.”

Knuckle’s voice is weird, strained and half-panicked as he never sounds, not when they’re together like this. It takes Shoot a minute to even  _recognize_  Knuckle’s voice, then another to fully process the tone, but his subconscious catches on quicker than his rationality so by the time he’s jerking back and his eyes are going wide his blood is chilling with worry and panic.

“What’s wrong?” he’s blurting, too fast to have any chance to regulate the sound back from the tight-wound fright under the words.

“Shit,” Knuckle says, which would be a lot more of a concern except that he’s sitting up quick, grabbing at Shoot’s shoulder and waist to hold him where he is. Shoot’s half-twisted off the bed already, one foot has hit the floor, and for a minute they’re stuck between Knuckle’s greater strength and Shoot’s adrenaline-fueled panic. Then Shoot takes a deep breath, and Knuckle says, “Come  _back_ , Shoot, it’s okay,” and when the shorter man pulls gently back in towards him Shoot lets himself be dragged, even if he can’t smooth the crease of startled worry from his forehead. Knuckle pulls him in against the stripe of skin exposed by his open coat, gets one hand tangled up in Shoot’s loose hair and one against the pattern of his spine down his back, and Shoot shuts his eyes and sighs even as Knuckle is murmuring meaningless comfort. “Sorry I startled you, it’s no big deal, calm down, it’s okay alright?” The gruff rumble of his voice has become a comfort even in a more everyday setting, and this close Shoot can feel the purr of sound in Knuckle’s chest, can let the hum smooth through the remnants of worry in his veins.

Knuckle waits until Shoot relaxes under his touch; Shoot can feel it coming, when he exhales it’s like something taut across his shoulderblades snaps and he can let his eyes shut, can properly take a deep breath again. Only then do the fingers in Shoot’s hair become more deliberate, does Knuckle start speaking again. “You okay?”

Shoot hums in wordless acknowledgment. He’s not even sure Knuckle can hear him, but whatever sign he does give is enough for the other man to keep talking.

“I’m sorry I startled you. It’s no big deal, really, I just…” There’s that tension again. Knuckle’s fighting to keep it out of his voice, this time, but there’s an edge under the last word, a fade-off into silence that’s a lot more telling than words would be. Shoot opens his eyes, stares at the too-close texture of Knuckle’s skin while the other mumbles his way into coherency again. “I wanted to try...wanted to know if  _you_  wanted to try…”

Another silence. Shoot swallows, clears his throat so he can be heard clearly. “Try what?”

“Well.” Knuckle is shifting, now, awkward against the mattress like Shoot’s demanding to know all his innermost secrets. It’s a little funny, given their current state of mutual undress and their recent history; Shoot can’t fight back the grin that curves over his lips, though he’s grateful for the cover of Knuckle’s jacket that keeps his reaction out of sight of the other man. “Something different.”

Shoot shuts his eyes, takes a breath through his nose to steady the anxious amusement trying to crawl up his throat. “Different how, Knuckle?”

“Sex.”

There’s something about the way he says it, the way it starts out too loud with an excess of force and ends in a self-conscious whisper, that makes Shoot laugh, a giggle bursting out against Knuckle’s skin in spite of his best attempt to hold it back.

“Hey,” Knuckle is protesting before Shoot can get himself under control. “Don’t  _laugh_  at me.”

“I’m not,” Shoot offers in stark contrast to the evidence. “I’m not, I’m not.”

“You  _are_ ,” Knuckle fires back, but he’s smiling, Shoot can hear it in his voice, and when the taller man looks up Knuckle’s watching his face and looks a lot less panicked than he sounded originally.

Shoot rolls back to lie flat on the mattress; he doesn’t quite fit, with Knuckle leaning across the middle, but with one leg hanging over the edge he’s more or less balanced. “What we’ve  _been_  doing…”

“I know.” Knuckle waves a hand, shooing away the last days of shocked delight like they’re smoke in the air. “I mean...”

He trails off, eyes skidding off Shoot’s as he flushes dark and self-conscious. Shoot bites his lip to keep from laughing, gets his throat under control and manages to sound only a little strangled when he offers, “I know what you mean.”

“Thank god,” Knuckle groans. “I literally just had the worst conversation of my entire life on the subject with Morel, you should be flattered I’m still interested after what I went through.”

“Wh--” Shoot starts, then processes the words properly. “Morel.”

Knuckle flinches. “Yeah. Please let’s never acknowledge it again, it was exactly as bad as you’re imagining.”

“Not imagining.” Shoot jerks his gaze up to the ceiling, tries to think about literally  _anything_  other than the specifics of the conversation he is now painfully grateful, in retrospect, to have missed. “Not thinking about it at  _all_.”

“Yeah.” Knuckle sighs and twists sideways, drops down onto his stomach so he can prop his chin on his hand and drape his free arm across Shoot’s chest. “I  _do_  want to think about you. And me. And…yeah.”

Shoot smiles at the ceiling. “Yeah.” When he looks sideways Knuckle’s watching him, head tipped and eyes so soft they turn the usual aggressive lines of his face gentle. The other man smiles in response to Shoot’s expression, so naturally Shoot’s not sure he’s even aware of the curve of his mouth. Shoot lifts his hand from between them to bump the back of his fingers against Knuckle’s lips idly.

“One of us will…” Shoot starts.

Knuckle jumps on the sentence quick, like he’s throwing himself atop a conversational grenade, blushing so dark he looks red even under his tan. “Yeah. Yes. I...yeah.” He clears his throat. “How do you want to...decide?”

For just the briefest moment Shoot wants to suggest Rock-Paper-Scissors, partially because it’s utterly absurd and partially because he thinks Knuckle might actually agree. It’s  _extremely_  hard to bite back the laugh this time; only the awareness that it would kill Knuckle with self-consciousness stops his throat and lets him reel himself back in.

“Well.” He still sounds a little strained, but he’s talking softly enough that it’s probably not noticeable. “Um. I…” He backtracks, comes at it from a different angle. “You have two arms.”

Knuckle whimpers in utter confusion at this apparent non-sequitur, so Shoot continues, still looking at the ceiling and now starting to blush as badly as Knuckle, although in his case it has more the look of an agonizing sunburn. “It’s...it’ll be easier for you to balance. If you’re on top.”

“Oh.” There is a brief pause while Shoot tries to sink straight through the bed in blushing embarrassment; it is minimal comfort that he suspects that Knuckle is trying for exactly the same effect. Then Knuckle takes a breath and Shoot braces himself for something equivalently awful, certain now that the  _entire_  night is ruined past saving.

“We are both totally ridiculous,” Knuckle says.

Shoot starts laughing almost before he has processed the words, and then Knuckle’s laughing too, curling in so he’s chuckling against Shoot’s shoulder while the taller man laughs, helpless under the relief of sincere amusement for his tight-wound tension. They’re both breathless from amusement when Knuckle presses his face harder into Shoot’s shoulder, making Shoot try to breathe backward and choke on a gasp and a laugh at the same time. Then Knuckle’s kissing him, his shoulder and arm and neck, and this  _shouldn’t_  be more thrilling than pressure on his lips but it  _is_ , Shoot’s still shaking with fading laughter but he’s gasping for air too, his body leaping into responsiveness faster than it has  _any_  right to. He turns sideways, presses harder against the other man, and Knuckle’s arm comes around to his back and pulls him in closer so they’re both sideways and leaning in against each other.

“Do you have --” Shoot starts.

“Yeah.” Shoot can hear Knuckle swallow, can feel the distracted brush of lips over his skin as the other man delays. “Yeah. Pocket of my coat.”

Shoot’s eyebrows go up. “That’s convenient.”

“Ah, yeah.” Knuckle laughs, faintly self-deprecating. “Not any doing of my own. You...just don’t ask,” he continues when Shoot opens his mouth to do exactly that. “Just  _don’t_.”

It’s enough of a dodge for Shoot to do the mental arithmetic himself, so he doesn’t push it, just flushes faintly as he processes the implication and then darker as Knuckle takes a breath and slides down his body. The other man’s open jacket catches on his skin, drags uncoordinated friction against Shoot’s stomach and hip so by the time Knuckle’s maneuvering between his legs Shoot is having trouble breathing from mingled anticipation and self-consciousness.

“You’ll need to relax,” Knuckle points out, his voice trembling until the words sound absurd in comparison to the way they are delivered. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before.”

Shoot brings his hand up to cover his face, as if blocking his vision will somehow prevent Knuckle from looking over his exposed body. “I know, but it’s always --”

The darkness behind Shoot’s shut eyes bursts into stars, hot white pleasure rushing under his skin and up his throat into a strangled moan. He rocks up off the bed, gasps for air, and it’s not until he gets his eyes open and looks down that he realizes Knuckle’s got his mouth over his cock.

“Oh  _fuck_  Knuckle,” he manages. His usual soft tone is gone, shattered into too loud and too uncontrolled, creaking up across his vocal range and increasing in volume as he speaks, but he can never control his voice when Knuckle’s mouth is on him and it’s a losing battle to even try. “A little warning next time?”

He can  _feel_  Knuckle’s laughter even before the other man pulls back off him and blinks up to meet his eyes. “You’re so much more fun when you’re surprised, though.” One hand comes down to stroke gently against Shoot’s leg, and the taller man drops back to the mattress with a groan. “And you are relaxed now, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Shoot admits. Even the touch against the sensitive skin of his leg isn’t enough to bring back the shuddering anxiety of a moment before, and when Knuckle’s tongue slides against him he shuts his eyes and lets his limbs go limp over the sheets.

It’s a few minutes before Knuckle moves again; by the time the bed shifts with the other man’s motion Shoot is drifting away from awareness of his surroundings, lost in a haze of physical sensation that is almost a delirium. It’s seeped deep enough into his body that even the edge of panic in Knuckle’s voice when he speaks, says, “Shoot?” with a question assumed in the word, isn’t enough to bring him all the way back.

“Yeah,” he says, slow and a little distantly. Tension is starting to creep back into his spine; he takes a breath, long and slow, holds it, sighs out. “Yeah, go for it.”

Knuckle goes still for a breath; then his movements resume, faint and impossible to pick apart with Shoot’s eyes closed. He elects to keep his vision closed off, focuses on the steady rhythm of his breathing while Knuckle’s own inhales come faster and sharper in his throat. When the other touches his leg again, his fingers are cooler, slippery; it’s only because Shoot is half-expecting the chill that he doesn’t jump.

“Are you okay?” Knuckle asks.

Shoot opens his eyes, turns sideways to come up on his elbow so he can watch Knuckle. “Are  _you_? You sound like you can’t breathe.”

“Oh, shut up,” Knuckle growls, but he laughs, and even though the sound is strained he’s breathing a little easier as he inhales again. His fingers come in sideways, press gently against Shoot; the taller man takes a breath, sighs himself back into relaxation.

“Slow,” he cautions.

“I  _know_ ,” Knuckle complains. He pushes a little harder, shifts the angle of his hand, and slides just inside the other man. Shoot takes a quick breath; the sensation isn’t unpleasant as such, just  _intense_ , he can feel it burning up his spine and under his skin, out into the very tips of his fingers.

“Fine,” he says as soon as he has air with which to speak, preemptively answering the question in Knuckle’s face. “I’m fine. I’ll tell you if I’m not.”

Knuckle’s face is still set in lines of concern, but he nods in jerky acknowledgment, shifts his weight, and carefully pushes his finger in farther. It’s better and worse as he goes; the flickering sensation comes in waves, still just overwhelming rather than painful, and it feels  _weird_ ,  _really_  weird, confusing on a reflexive level. Then Knuckle dips his head down so his hair brushes against Shoot’s stomach and his tongue slides over the other’s cock, and  _oh_  Shoot’s body decides for a moment that it’s a  _good_  weird.

Knuckle pulls away -- Shoot must have gasped, or whined, or  _something_. “Are you --”

It’s back to weird. “Don’t stop,” Shoot demands, too focused to bother with self-consciousness or cowardice. “It’s better when you’re using your mouth, don’t stop.”

Knuckle gets that, at least, comes back down so fast his teeth bump too-much sensation against Shoot for a moment, but then he’s correcting, mumbling, “Sorry, sorry!” and licking up over the other’s length so Shoot gasps and shudders at the sensation.

“And your hand,” he manages, “keep moving your hand.”

It’s better, now; Knuckle can move a little more without drowning Shoot in an excess of sensation, and the slick pressure of his mouth is starting to convince Shoot’s body that the intrusion isn’t all bad either. “More,” Shoot says, voice distant from the flaring heat of his blood, and Knuckle’s hand comes in harder, a little deeper and a little faster, and it is  _definitely_  feeling better, now.

“Okay,” Shoot says, just as Knuckle pulls back and looks up to him, opens his mouth to say, “Shoot, can I --”

They both stop, and Shoot’s the one to get his bearings first. “Another finger,  _slowly_.”

Knuckle nods jerkily, starts to dip his head back down to lick over him.

“ _Ah_. And --” Shoot has to swallow hard, deliberately refocus. “Slower. With your mouth.”

“Sorry,” Knuckle starts, but Shoot shakes his head fast.

“No, you’re  _perfect_.” There’s a brief tingle of self-conscious chill at the back of his neck; when he laughs it fades off, a little. “Uh. That’s the problem.”

Knuckle’s eyes go wider. “Oh.  _Oh_.” He laughs, startlingly loud in the enclosed space, and Shoot has to smile even as he groans, “ _Knuckle_.”

“Right, sorry.” The other man brings his head back down, teasingly slow now, and it’s not enough until he draws his hand back and starts to push back in with a second finger. Then it’s enough, too much again; Shoot has to fall flat back on the bed, stare at the ceiling and focus on his breathing until that first wave of sensation has faded to a manageable rush instead of drowning him. Knuckle’s found the rhythm, after that, or maybe it’s just that Shoot’s composure is cracking along with his self-consciousness and Knuckle is adjusting in response to the other’s half-voiced moans and sharper inhalations. It doesn’t much matter anyway; Shoot’s lost in a haze of sensation and heat by the time Knuckle draws his fingers back, pleasure sparking through him so the removal feels more like a loss than a relief.

“Knuckle,” he starts.

Fingers come against him hip. “Just give me a minute, Shoot.” Knuckle’s voice is shaking, badly and audibly, and Shoot can feel the tremble running through his arm and fingers as well before the other man draws his hand back and finally shrugs his jacket off his shoulders. When he comes back in his eyes are wide and so nervous Shoot feels distantly like they’ve traded roles, feels that it’s normal for him to reach out to touch the back of Knuckle’s neck as a comfort.

“It’s okay,” he says, spreads his legs wider around Knuckle’s hips and tips up a little on the bed. “It’s fine, we’re alright.”

Knuckle exhales -- it whines faintly in the back of his throat -- but doesn’t offer coherent speech, just looks down and shifts himself to one arm so he can line himself up. Shoot doesn’t try to sit up, just watches the focus on Knuckle’s face and chants  _relax relax relax_  over and over in his head, until when he feels the push of Knuckle against him he doesn’t fight it at all, to start.

Then the other man comes forward an inch and it’s  _right_  back to too-much sensation, Shoot’s vision checks out for a minute and his hand against Knuckle’s neck goes desperate; Knuckle whimpers, starts to say “Sorry” but Shoot cuts him off with “It’s fine, just go  _slow_ , Knuckle, you’re bigger than your fingers.”

There’s a burst of laughter from Knuckle, too bright and fast to be deliberate, and a little of the tension in his neck relaxes. It’s easier for Shoot to exhale in response to that, easier to relax into the bed, so when Knuckle comes in a little deeper and slow, it must be  _agony_  to be going so slow, the rush leaves Shoot gasping but still breathing.

There’s a brush of contact over his length, Knuckle’s fingers just touching over him, and Shoot nearly sobs in relief because  _there_ , that’s that same cue he needed before, for his body to rock into the sensation instead of shying away from it, lean forward until the friction shifts into heat proper.

“Okay,” he says, and “more,” and Knuckle starts to move, his hand first and then his hips, slowly coming forward until Shoot’s breathing hard but steady, until he can feel Knuckle all through the rippling reaction through his whole body.

“ _Shoot_ ,” Knuckle says, and Shoot’s not sure if it’s a plea or a comment or a prayer and it doesn’t matter, not really.

“Yes,” he says, and Knuckle pulls back a little, comes back forward, and his hand is moving faster, thank god, dragging sensation up over Shoot’s body until the pressure of the other man inside him is a harmony to the main theme of pleasure. Knuckle’s breathing hard but Shoot only notices it as if at a great distance; everything is starting to blend together, all his senses pooling together into heat and sensation and  _more_   _more more_ , he can feel the leading edge of pleasure coming for him as if he can see it in place of the vision that is splintering off and away.

“Knuckle,” his voice says, echoingly far off. “Don’t --”

“I know,” and that’s much closer, hot and desperate and shaky. “I know, I won’t, I’ve got you,” and Shoot gasps and rocks up into the pressure of Knuckle’s hand, comes all across his stomach and Knuckle’s hand and the sheets, a little.

Knuckle gasps, whimpers an exhale, and lets Shoot go while the taller man is still trembling and waiting for his senses to realign themselves. There’s a touch on his hip, sticky fingers settling into a grip, and Knuckle pushes up into him, floods him with sensation so sharp it is very nearly painful. Shoot chokes and gasps, is still in the midst of taking in a forced breath when Knuckle shudders and goes still over him, gasping Shoot’s name around his own orgasm.

Knuckle is shaking so badly he almost can’t hold himself up as he pulls out, and when Shoot pulls against his neck the minimal pressure is enough to drag the other man down to collapse over him.

“Fuck,” Knuckle says against Shoot’s shoulder. Shoot laughs weakly, fits his fingers into the texture of Knuckle’s hair. “Are you okay?”

Shoot tries to speak, has to swallow and take a breath before he can manage words. Even then they sound weak and shaky. “I’m great.”

“Good.” Knuckle reaches out for him with his clean hand, winds a lock of loose hair around his fingers, and sighs with the weight of a man thinking very seriously about sleep. “Good.”

“We should clean up,” Shoot points out without moving.

“Yeah.” Knuckle’s voice is muffled against his shoulder. “Soon. In a minute.”

Shoot smiles at the ceiling. “In a minute.”


End file.
